


One Tender Payment For Our Sins

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [36]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>She can't pinpoint when things changed, when estrangement, longing and a love that has always been too deep, too close, not quite right, reshaped them into what they are now.</em> - Dean/Jo Smith, PWP, pegging and oral sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Tender Payment For Our Sins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crumble_cake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumble_cake/gifts).



> She communicated her need for pegging fic for this pairing on her Tumblr, implanted that thought into my brain and then made sure it was properly watered and fed. Things sort of snowballed from there? Also, I'll use this as a fill for the 'object penetration' square on my kink-bingo card. 
> 
> In case that's not made obvious by the pairing: this is heterosexual sibling incest, folks. Stay away if that's not your thing, yeah? :)
> 
> Maybemalapert helped me brush this up and lent me her brain for a while, and kelzies read this over in regards to G+S. Thanks! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "Get On The Road" by Tired Pony.

They don't see each other that much, these days. She's in her last year of college, Dean's already done and went off to Columbus to take the city by storm, make it big. And he will, there's no doubt about that for her. If her brother sets his sight on something, he usually gets it done. 

Even so, she misses him.

Which is kind of stupid. The last time they were living in the same place, back at home, she was a child. Their relationship, as it is now, didn't form and develop until later. When they were both getting a shiny, expensive education at different ends of the country and only ever saw each other over the holidays at home. Jo doesn't know what they were like before that, doesn't remember, doesn't want to dig deep enough to try. She can't pinpoint when things changed, when estrangement, longing and a love that has always been too deep, too close, not quite right, reshaped them into what they are now.

She's nervous when she rings his doorbell. Like every other time they visit each other, she fears this will be when he's going to refuse and send her away. It's been two or three years now, but he's still anxious about it. He thinks it's his fault, that he's taking advantage of her, and that he should've stopped it before they veered off track. Like anyone could've put a halt to this; it ran away with both of them as suddenly and inevitably as a tidal wave, drowned them and spat them out irreversibly changed.

But she shouldn't have worried; the buzzer whirrs, the door springs open, and when she climbs up the stairs to his apartment Dean's already waiting with in the doorway, in boxers and a T-shirt, hair still ruffled, a smile on his face that's tentative but happy.

They need each other in equal measures, he can't send her away any more than she'd be able to turn her back on him.

She waits until they're inside before she lets her bag fall to the ground where she stands, snakes her arms around his neck and kisses him. He lifts her up a little, presses her body close to his, before he breaks the kiss and lets go of her to point to the kitchen. “Did you have breakfast yet?”

“At the train station,” Jo replies, rolling her eyes at his concerned tone. “I'm going to college, you know, all by myself. Just assume I won't immediately starve without your supervision.”

He holds his hands up. “Whoa, okay. Can I interest you in coffee, then? I bought cream and brown sugar, just for you.”

She nods, and follows him in the kitchen, watching how he prepares the two cups of coffee, grins at her over his shoulder while he adds the cream and sugar to hers. He likes his coffee black, not even sugar or cream. Just hot and bitter. Dean Smith doesn't compromise, all in or all out, even when it comes to his beverages. It used to drive her insane when they were younger, but now she appreciates it. He's her rock in the tide, always reliable and assessable, never wavering or wandering off the beaten track.

Except for when it comes to this, to them, to what they have.

They spend the day like any other pair of siblings coming together for a visit. She joins him on his morning run, they have lunch in a fancy little restaurant downtown, spend the afternoon on his sofa playing the same video games that they used to love when they were kids.

He still lets her win, and she still smacks him upside the head for it.

It's not until later, after Dean made them sandwiches for dinner and puts on a DVD for the two of them to watch, that the atmosphere between them begins to shift and crackle. Both of them know what's coming, what they've been steering right towards all day, why she's here in the first place. They're going to spend the night doing things that normal siblings _shouldn't_. She isn't going to sleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room, he won't sleep alone in his bedroom and stay in bed until he hears her move about in there so he won't wake her; they're going to fall asleep in each other's arms.

Halfway through the movie, Dean stretches out, curls his arm around the back of the sofa, and she shifts to fit herself in the space he made for her. The first kiss is different from their hello this morning, almost electrifying. It sets her alight and makes her tingle with anticipation. For a while that's all they do, slow kisses that are more promise than heat, intimate but intense, unhurried, a preamble to what's to come. They relearn each other anew whenever they do this, and Jo thinks that may be part of what makes it so good: there's no routine to it, it’s spaced out enough that it's a singular event each time. More would make the brittle thing they have between them crumble and fall, turn it into something neither of them could deal with.

There are no illusions involved, no childish dreams. Jo doesn't sit in her dorm room daydreaming about running away with her brother and living as lovers in a place where nobody knows they're related. That's not what they are. She's had boyfriends, he's been dating other girls, and some day one of them will find someone special, be the first to get married, and then it will be over. They're not in love with each other, that's not what this is. They simply give each other something no one else could at this point in their lives. They have yet to find their place in this world, and right now that's more important than looking for _the one_ who'll make them stop craving this and want another thing more.

The credits roll, and Dean switches the TV off and the CD player on. Low music as background noise that she doesn't bother identifying. She inches closer, drags up his shirt enough so she can touch, feel the heat of his skin under her fingertips. She feathers kisses to his bare stomach, smiles to herself when the muscles underneath flutter. He stretches back and shudders, whispers her name, and she shuts him up by putting a hand onto his crotch and squeezing gently. They both changed into shirts and sweatpants after they got back here, no need for lingerie or seduction, and she can feel his cock stirring under the touch through the thin layers of fabric.

It's not long until he squeezes her arm to still her, nods towards the bedroom and gets up. Jo trails after him in silence, and they each undress unceremoniously before they lay down on the bed.

They're facing each other, and Dean tucks her hair behind her ear, out of her face. He's looking at her intently, and she knows this part. “Are you sure?”

He asks her that exact same thing, every time, often more than once. He needs the reassurance, she knows, to gain the go-ahead all over again whenever this happens so he can look at himself in the mirror afterwards. They had long conversations about it, her trying to get it through his thick head that _she wants this too_ , but her brother's nothing if not stubborn.

“Yes,” she says, voice strong and even despite the excitement that's pooling low in her belly. “I'm sure.”

His eyes sweep over her face once more, thoughtful and considering, before they fall lower and he leans in for another kiss. They're done talking, and this time it's hungry and deep and _so good_ , stealing her breath away and making her light-headed with need. She inches closer, close enough that she can feel his erection dig into her thigh. She reaches down to stroke him, slowly, long strokes that draw throaty moans and make him thrust forward into her hand.

But she's impatient, tonight. The last time they saw each other was over Christmas, at home, where they can't have this for obvious reasons, and months have passed since then. The wait had been _killing_ her. She takes her hand away and leans back, waits for his eyes to find hers before she pushes at his chest to make him lie down on his back. Dean smiles at her, eyes hooded and breath sped up just enough to betray his excitement. He obeys without hesitation. His knees fall to the sides as soon as he's in position, and that's how she knows that he's been dying for this too. She kneels between the v of his legs with a hand on each of his knees, applying pressure to make him part them further, and his cock twitches under her gaze when she sits there and _looks_. He's making a pretty picture, like that; wide open for her, his dick hard and red where it's straining up, already gleaming at the tip.

He lets her stare for a moment before twists around to get the tube of lube that's sitting on the nightstand, throws it her way with a smirk and wriggles his hips impatiently. Jo catches it expertly, earning herself a fond grin from Dean. She played baseball in high school, was pretty good at it too, and he never missed a game. 

Her hands are shaking a little when she opens the tube and squirts some of the liquid into her palm, lets it sit there for a moment so it can warm up a bit. The next part is her favorite. She runs a hand down his inner thigh, feeling it tremble, before she brushes one lubed finger past his perineum and over his hole, teasingly light, the ghost of a touch. He gasps anyway, and when she spares a glance up she sees that he's thrown an arm over his face, eyes no doubt shut tightly beneath it. And nah, she doesn't like that. She won't let him hide from this.

“Dean,” she says. “Hey, come on. Look at me.” His reaction is instant, arm falling to the side and eyes blinking open to search for hers. She smiles at him. “Good. Keep them open, I want you here with me, okay?”

He groans in frustration but nods, and she keeps looking right at him, greedy for every twitch in his expression when she stops playing around and breaches him; the way he hisses, and every little moan that follows once the muscle gives way and he surrenders to the intrusion. His face tenses, then smooths out, lips parted and breathing heavily. She files it all away, stores it up for the weeks and months they'll spend apart after tomorrow.

She adds a second finger, then a third way too soon, produces another hiss. He doesn't complain, though, if anything his breathing quickens up further. He flails out a hand as she scissors her fingers inside of him. She grabs it with her free hand and squeezes it. “Hey. I'll cut this short, yeah? Go in already, before you're all the way ready. It'll burn more, maybe even hurt a bit. But you'll like that, right?”

He props himself up on his elbows, eyes finding hers, biting his lip, and for a second or two she thinks maybe she read him wrong. But he nods. “Yeah. Fuck, _yes_.”

Jo pulls out her fingers – but not without another brush of her thumb past his hole and all the way down to his balls – and disentangles their hands. She gets up from the bed, walks over to the bottom drawer of his dresser and produces a plain, brown storage box. Inside, there's a handful of toys: a small vibrator, sleek metal surface, like something to be found on a spaceship, and a couple of dildos in different sizes. But they just decided they won't play around today, so what she goes for is the strap-on. It's quite elegant, all things considers, all black leather with a moderately sized, equally black fake cock protruding from it, a smaller bulge on the inside to stimulate her while she penetrates him. She takes it and excuses herself to go to the bathroom to put it on.

Looking at herself in the mirror when she wears it is part of her ritual, makes her feel both ridiculous and excited. It's a bit of a headtrip: she, the little sister, about to fuck her over-protective older brother with a plastic appendage until he's seeing stars. That he _lets her_ , craves it, might just beg her to be taken before the night is over, speeds up her breathing and makes her heart beat faster.

When she walks back into the bedroom, his eyes follow her every move, pinned to her cock like it's a magnet and he's the corresponding pole. He readjusts himself, scoots up on the bed a little to give her more room. He needn't have; that's not the way she wants him tonight. Her hands roam over the inside of his thighs one last time, smooth skin and hard, strained muscle underneath, before she draws back and sits back on her haunches.

“Not like this,” she commands. “On your knees.”

His eyes widen, both of them knowing that the different position is going to make it more difficult for him to take it – flat on his back with his legs wide would've been easier – but he complies, rolls over and brings his knees underneath himself, propped up on his arms, ass high up in the air. She kneads the skin at the small of his back for a moment, massages it gently to calm him down, soothe the nerves away, before she takes the tube that's still been lying on the bed and lubes the plastic dick up. She smears a generous amount of it onto his hole, too, using a finger to get some of the liquid inside of him, fucks it in and out a few times as a reward for his drawn-out, needy moan.

When she lines up, though, playfully nudges the fat head of her dick to his hole, he falls silent. His breathing goes ragged, unsteady and with a hint of fear, and it spurs her on at the same time as it makes her want to turn him over and give him a good, thorough prep to eradicate every chance that this might hurt.

Because like this, using the unyielding fake cock on him when he's barely opened, it _will_ hurt. But she remembers the noise he made just a few minutes ago when she gave in to her impatience and went to fast. She asked him. He's on board with this, and so she stops teasing and pushes the head in, slowly, carefully, two fingers on his rim around the plastic to make sure nothing tears. The noises he makes are unlike everything she heard from him before, a pained whimper quickly succeeded by a deep groan. He bunches up the sheets in his fists, lets his head fall down and she regrets putting him on all fours, not able to see his expression, look into his eyes.

She doesn't give herself time to reconsider, to give in and ask him to flip back over - just pushes in another inch, too much, too fast, and the whining sound he makes then is definitely closer to pain that pleasure. But his back arches and he pushes back onto her cock, urging her on, tell-tale swirl to his hips. She fucks in further, bit by bit, careful but steady, until she bottoms out and stills. There's a sheen of sweat low on his back and he's breathing heavily with the effort to take it like this, but no complaint is coming from his lips.

Guessing games aren't good enough for her right now, though. Tonight, she's the one who needs to be sure. One hand on his tailbone, thumb caressing the taut skin there, she asks, “You okay?”

His voice is rough and a little slurred when he answers, fucked-out already. “Yeah. I'm great. No worries, sis, keep it comin'.”

She starts to thrust, pulls out so far only the head's still inside and goes back in all the way slowly, then faster, and he _keens_ , the sounds coming from his throat she never thought him capable of making, low and guttural. His hips move in rhythm with hers, meeting every one of her movements, and all the while he sets his legs apart further, taking her deeper. The knob on the inside of her harness massages her clit, perfect pressure, but it's almost an afterthought compared to the sight of him, the noises he's making. His hands are still bunching up the sheets, his cock hanging untouched between his legs ever since she initially jerked him off, but even so, suddenly he's coming, shouting his release while his body jackknives back almost like he's had the wind knocked out of him. She can feel the spasms of the muscles in his lower body, how they're changing her rhythm, giving a different sort of resistance than they did before. She fucks him through it, thrusting in even harder until he gives a final shudder and stills. He slumps forward when she pulls out, like she and her cock were the only thing left keeping him in position, all but falls to the side in a boneless heap.

Jo can't get the harness of fast enough, wraps herself around him from behind and rains kisses onto his shoulders. She wants to tell him _everything_ , how much she loves him, how good he's been for her, how grateful she is and how happy that she's got him, that they have this, but words aren't enough. Words can never be enough, won't ever convey just how much she feels in a moment like this. She settles for actions instead, smooths a hand down his flank, over his flat stomach, further down. He hisses when she touches his spent cock, directly on the tip, smearing around the come and brushing over his slit. By way of a reprimand for the protest she nibbles at his earlobe, barely biting down, but she draws her hand away and explores between his legs instead, dipping a finger into the mess there and back inside of him. Arousal's still humming through her, but right now it's more important to be close, to be near him, than to get off. 

He shudders, but doesn't try to get away. “Give me a few minutes to catch my breath, would ya?”

“Sure, big bro,” she says, burying her head between his shoulder blades, but doesn't let up. “Anything you say.”

He reaches a hand back to take her arm and still her, not forceful, just underlining his point. “You greedy little thing,” he teases. 

She doesn't need to see his face to know he's grinning, or to imagine the way his eyes glaze over when she fucks her finger in deeper one last time before withdrawing it slowly with a twist to her wrist; it's enough to feel his body tense against hers, grip on her arm going slack. 

"How about you quit mouthing off, then, and do something about the fact that one of us didn't get to come yet?" 

Dean disentangles himself from her, turns around so he's facing her again, like when they first started this tonight. He's smirking, an edge to it that he doesn't let anyone see outside of the bedroom but that she's intimately familiar with. 

"All yours," he says, voice low but with a hesitant edge to it. Handing the reins over to her by unspoken gesture and behavior is one thing, and it's hard enough for him, but she understands that this, giving her permission with words, explicitly and without room for plausible deniability, is much harder for him. 

It works for her, though, his quiet submission, makes the need that's thrumming in her climb a notch or three. She leans in, pushing at his shoulder while they kiss, languid and slow, and he goes willingly, draws his knees up as soon as he's on his back like he's expecting round two already after all. 

But that's not what she's got in mind. 

Once he's comfortable, she climbs on top of him, her legs bracketing his chest as she kneels. "No. It'll be your turn again later." 

He doesn't reply, but his breath stutters and his hands come up to slide over her hip, grip at her; not to stop her or push her away, but to get her closer. 

She rises again, not fully, just enough so she can inch forward until she's level with his face. Before she lowers herself down, pussy right above his mouth, she steals another glance at his face: smirk still in place, wetting his lips. 

He goes to work right away. She grips the headboard to support herself while his hands find her pussy, hold her open, slide through her folds, rub at her clit. His hands are soft, he's never had to work hard with them, but it's still different to anything she could to do herself, a few rough patches from sports or the like that make the touch rougher, more intense, than her own. They've been doing this often enough for him to know what works for her, where to touch, how much pressure she needs, and he has her moaning and quivering within a minute or two, her thighs straining from the awkward position. 

When he starts licking at her, long, deep swipes of his tongue, she can't keep herself from grinding down on it, riding his face, desperate for release now, eyes shut and head thrown back. Her grip on the wood of the headboard turns white-knuckled. It's messy, what he's doing to her, no precision, but desperate eagerness. The noise of it filling the room, a filthy squelch as he eats her out, and she can feel herself get lost in the sensation, the way he sucks at her clit, just briefly, then pushes his tongue into her, the world narrowed down to the way her it throbs and almost burns, riding the edge between _just enough_ and _too much_. He's only picking up the pace as she rocks down, swirling her hips, suffocating him with pussy, like her pleasure spurs him on. 

She's been half-there for a while, the pressure from the harness that riled her up alongside with the exhilarating thrill of watching him, and it doesn't take long until she her orgasm washes through her, leaving her sated and exhausted at the same time. The feeling of his tongue on her turns uncomfortable immediately, and she's not in the mood to let him continue and wait it out, so she inches back to bring her pussy out of his range, grins to herself when he chases after it. 

She crawls down his body until she's lying next to him, face tucked underneath his chin, arms wrapped around him. He's clinging right back, face buried in her hair, and just like that, the sex and the power play and the strangeness fall away. He's already held her like that when she was little, protecting her from the world. 

The least she can do to repay him is to do the same for him, letting him escape into her arms, surrender to her control. It's not right, it's not normal, but it works for them. Right in this moment, she doesn't care about anything else.


End file.
